


The Patterns of Love

by TheDarkivist



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Corruption, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, This is kinda messed up, Unnecessary References to Tennyson, fashion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23175538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkivist/pseuds/TheDarkivist
Summary: Statement of Georgette Matthews regarding her handbag. Original statement given 15th January, 2012. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	The Patterns of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Get ready for references to Tennyson, Martin and high fashion going a little awry.

Statement of Georgette Matthews regarding her handbag. Original statement given 15th January, 2012. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

I deserve pretty things.

I am a pretty thing, as my husband used to say in the early days of our engagement. Don't get me wrong, he still appreciates me, in his own way, although he does simultaneously appreciate other women. I do not hold it against him. He keeps me financially secure and all he asks for in return is that I do not embarrass him.

Last Christmas, he gave me a handbag. That is to say, he gave the money to ‘get myself something nice’. A nice white bag with a very distinct colourful pattern. The brand name starts with L and V. I surely don’t need to say more. I didn’t even like it that much, but it was that sort of a thing he would choose, and so I could pretend he picked it for me. A tangible proof of affection.

Love can make you so pathetic. Habit even more so.

I put the paper bag with the handbag on my dresser and went to sleep, alone. Sleep eluded me. The fragrance of new leather clung to my hair, and in the end, I gave in, and took the handbag out of the paper one. I set it on my night-stand, where I could look at it as I drifted off.

The light felt somehow gentler than usual when I woke up. The handbag was the first thing I saw and in the soft morning light, I realised I quite liked it. Liked the colours. Like sweets, like fruit-scented pens, like the rays of sun passing through a kaleidoscope, like being in love.

I scooped up the bag into my arms and just… held it. I felt quite ridiculous when I put it down again. You must think me strange, but I suppose that’s a good thing, here of all places. Then I saw it. The pattern imprinted itself on my nightgown and my hands, loud on the white satin, louder still on my skin. I examined the bag, but it didn’t seem to suffer any discolouration or smudging.

My hands were shaking as I washed them. Scrubbed them raw, really. The soap dispenser now sports a bright pink L on top, but I guess that’s no longer mine to worry about.

The pattern follows me or maybe this is what I’ve become. Doesn’t matter. Sorry about your table. The pattern will manifest soon, I’m afraid. It’s not all bad, though, it grew on me. At least this way I’m surrounded by the love that he’d surely give me, if he knew how I ached for it.

I hope you were wearing gloves.

Statement ends.

* * *

Jon dropped the glossy magazine and frantically started wiping his hands on his trousers. The table was already freckled with spots of colour that hadn’t been there before. He grabbed a paper tissue and set off to examine the magazine more carefully. It was thick, and full of ads but when he looked closer, none of the ads were trying to… sell anything. Just logos of different brands haphazardly strewn across the pages, tangled with the multiple colourful fonts that ran over the magazine, recounting the statement. Nobody had seen the statement giver come or leave.

The woman on the cover could be about thirty. Her face, framed by platinum blonde waves, was pale, save for neon-pink lipstick, glassy blue eyes and colourful freckles.

No. Not freckles.

He turned on his heel and headed out, thinking about how Martin would probably say something in that moment. Something stupid, for sure – or worse, he’d drag the Romantics into it. Martin, however, was too busy being useless at home, likely with a stomach bug.

Almost against his will, the head archivist stopped at the door, cleared his throat and said: “She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace.” Immediately, he rolled his eyes, but the way light hit the magazine, it seemed as if though the woman on the cover smiled.

He shut the door behind himself and went to the artefact storage.

Some things could be their problem, too.


End file.
